Neighborly
by Swishy Willow Wand
Summary: "She sits up finally, well after midnight, and walks silently to the window. Looks at the full moon through the curtains, and then her eyes flit over to —" Katniss sees Peeta in a rather compromising position. Originally written for March 2013 PiP, day 5.
1. Chapter 1

Peeta Mellark has been her next door neighbor since pretty much birth. Their bedrooms face each other, and when they were six they strung up cans on a wire and tried to communicate. When they were eight, they tried to develop flashlight language. When they were ten, they tried playing Frisbee in their separate rooms, only stopping when they shattered Peeta's dining room window.

When they were twelve, Katniss's father died. And she stopped having time for things like flashlight languages, trying to send paper airplanes wooshing through his window. She kept her window shut, her curtains closed.

When they were fourteen, he stopped checking.

When they were sixteen she opened the window one late afternoon to find him pressed closely to a girl on his bed, fingers curled tightly in her dark hair. She's dreamed about it many times since then, only instead of some stranger she doesn't recognize it is her, and he is tugging at her dark braid, and she is the one calling his name…

They are eighteen now, almost completely through with their senior year; sometimes she still peeks through the same green curtains she has had for the last ten years and looks into his room. Wonders what he would do if she twirled her flashlight in a circle and blinked it on five times. He probably doesn't have time for things like that, though — Peeta Mellark is popular. He is the star on the school's wrestling team, captain of the debate club, and in his spare time he works at his parents' bakery. And there have been several girls since the first one she saw him with.

Not that she's been looking. A lot.

She knows he wouldn't have time for her, even if she wanted to make amends. He has friends and clubs and sports and work and girls and the whole world falling open for his beautiful smile that he still flashes her way every time he sees her (which is too often and not often enough). And she is just Katniss Everdeen, famous for her scowl and her perfect aim and for kicking Cato in the groin when they were in ninth grade. They are separated only by the lawn that his father makes sure stays perfectly trimmed, but they are really worlds apart.

But she still catches him looking sometimes — when he thinks she doesn't notice. In Calculus. At lunch. In the hallway, when she stoops down to her bottom locker and her shirt slides up a little in the back. When they pull into their driveways at the same time. When she is on her porch, listening to the crickets, and he comes home from work. Every time, the same thing. He looks at her, something she can't understand in his eyes; whenever he sees she has caught him, he gives her a crooked smile. The one she recognizes from when they were kids. Tells her hello, softly, like he's never sure if he's allowed to.

She wonders if she will ever stop thinking he is beautiful. She doesn't remember when she started thinking he was beautiful. It was sometime between making mud pies with him in first grade and seeing him running along their street shirtless last year, but it is here and it is constant and it makes her breath close up tightly in her chest when she thinks about it too much.

She wonders if he ever thinks about her like she thinks about him, when she lies in bed at night and turns her head towards her window. Knowing if she looked out, his curtains his mother insists stay up would be swaying in the breeze because he likes to sleep with the windows open.

He probably doesn't.

…

It is a hot April, which isn't unexpected in her part of the south. What is unexpected, though, is the way the air conditioner refuses to click on when it finally hits 80 degrees in their house. Turns out the unit is completely broken; it's almost as old as Prim is, so it's not completely unexpected, but it is still one of the most inconvenient things to piss her off so far this year. Her window stays open more than it has in six years, the curtains pushed back as far as they will go, trying to coax a breeze into her room.

That's how it happens.

One night, a week after the air conditioner broke, Katniss rests listlessly in bed. The moon is bright and full and cars continue to pass by, and with all the thoughts of midterms and graduation and the future, she cannot sleep for anything. She sits up finally, well after midnight, and walks silently to the window. Looks at the full moon through the curtains, and then her eyes flit over to—

Holy. Shit.

His lamp isn't on, but the moon and the streetlight shine in to his room, casting a surreal glow over everything. And there he is. On his bed. Sitting on the edge, eyes closed tightly.

Wearing nothing.

With his hand. You know, there.

Oh god, she can't even say it. Can't even think it.

Can't even tear her eyes away.

It's not exactly the first time she's seen one (god, she can't even think that, either). She has the internet after all. But it's the first time she's seen Peeta's and, holy shit, are they usually that big?

She stares, open mouthed, fascinated by the way his hand pumps up and down, his other hand tightly clenching the bed sheet, his lips a perfect 'O.'

She should be disgusted, shouldn't she? She should close her window and turn away and write his mother a strongly worded letter. But instead, she finds herself wondering if her hands could make his shoulders jerk the same way, if he is panting as hard as she thinks (hopes, what is wrong with her?) he is, who he is thinking about—

Who is he thinking about? Shit. Shit. She is watching him get off to thoughts of another girl, and she is positive he would be horrified if he knew what was running through her head. The realization makes her stumble backwards, and her heel rams against her desk. Hard. "Shit!"

The expletive floats like the beam of a flashlight out of her open window. He freezes suddenly, looks up. Straight at her.

Shit.

Katniss is too embarrassed to come forward and close her window, too terrified to keep looking at him. She knows he saw her, he must know she saw him, must know—

She slips back on her bed, throws herself back on the pillows. An hour passes by. Her hands are still shaking from sheer mortification. And something else, too, something that she can't admit to that is still crawling all over her. Her legs squeeze tightly together as she remembers the look on his face.

The only time she ever touches herself is when she can't sleep, when thoughts run through her head like too many cars on the road. And her hand creeps down, rubbing through her underwear until she is wet enough. And then she slips under the waistband, fingers quickly circling her clit, over and over and over until her legs shake and then everything else shakes too. It's quick, quiet, effortless. Usually she doesn't even have to think of anyone.

But tonight, it's not like that. Tonight her legs are already shaking from embarrassment, her panties already wet from what she just saw, and Peeta's face as he works himself runs through her mind on loop. And then her mind wanders.

His face when he works her. His fingers circling, dipping, the sound of him moving against her slick skin. His bare chest pressed against hers, the smattering of blond hair that caught the moonlight rubbing coarsely against her. The sound of her name coming from his golden tongue. His lips everywhere.

His lips everywhere.

It hits her harder than it usually does, and a small cry escapes her. Loud in the dead of the night. She lies there, chest heaving, mind racing. The calmness that usually follows orgasm completely escaping her, replaced by panic.

There is no way he heard her. There is no way he heard her. There is no way—

Shit.

She sits up suddenly, looking through the window directly across from her bed. And he is standing at his window.

Looking straight at her.

Shit.

. . .

Katniss sits in her first class of the day, calculus, tapping her pencil against the surface of the desk. Her heart has been hammering nervously all morning. She thought all morning about skipping school (forever), but she had to take Prim, and couldn't think of a good lie to divert her. So she is here.

So is Peeta.

She knows he is looking at her, can feel his stare burning through her as Mr. Heavensbee drones on and on about limits. She feels a flush creep up her neck, stinging her ears; she fiddles with the end of her braid. She won't look back, she won't look back, she won't—

Shit.

She can't help it; it's just for a second, just a twitch of her head to the side, but their eyes lock. And he is staring at her, she was right, and there is an intensity that makes her turn her head even more, looking him full on. Realizes what she's doing, turns back sharply. Doesn't look again.

But he manages to brush past her on the way out, cupping her elbow slightly. "We need to talk," he whispers. She turns around but he has already walked off, heading in the opposite direction.

Shit.

She spends the rest of the day in a fit of anxiety, her silence more brooding at lunch with Madge, her disinterest more pointed during history. We need to talk. About what? That she caught him jacking off? That she spied on him while he did it, and then got off to it? Oh, god. She literally cannot do this.

So she doesn't. Not for the first time, when the bell rings signaling the beginning of the last period, she slips through the quietest hallway in school, past the art room, shop class, and band room, making her way around the football field to the parking lot and sliding into her car. Prim has cheer practice today and is riding home with Rue, and Mr. Abernathy never takes attendance. No one will ever know.

On the way home she stops at Dollar General and buys the cheapest oscillating fan she can find; when she gets home, she slams her window shut, closing the curtains violently.

Any idiot could get the message she is trying to send. That doesn't stop the sinking feeling in her stomach as the minutes crawl slowly by as she sits on her couch, watching daytime TV and waiting for the sound of his car in the drive.

. . .

She wakes up disoriented, her skin sticking to the leather of the couch in the late afternoon heat; a text from Prim lets her know that she is staying the night with Rue. The house is a mix of sunlight and shadow, and she stumbles to the kitchen for a glass of water, fumbling when she glances through the back door window at the porch.

Shit.

She is aware of the frazzled state of her braid, tugging awkwardly at the hem of the running shorts she never actually runs in. Pulls open the door and glares at him blearily. "What the hell are you doing here?"

He is fucking golden in the fading sunlight, and the sketch pad in his hands perfectly depicting the light shining through the oak tree in her backyard only serves to piss her off more. His perfection is obnoxious. Why is he here?

He finally looks up at her, swallowing nervously at the obvious irritation on her face. Clumsily wipes the charcoal staining his fingers on his jeans, stands up to face her. "I told you we needed to talk," he says finally, blue eyes catching hers. She twists the door handle nervously, tugging at her shorts nervously; his eyes follow the action and something in her chest tightens. "I saw you leaving school," he adds a moment later. His glance goes to her legs again, and his tongue darts out to lick his lips, and the feeling spreads to her fingers. Shit.

"Look, Peeta," she says, leaning against the door frame and crossing her arms defensively. "Maybe I wasn't really clear enough. I don't want to talk."

Something passes over his face, more like a scowl than anything she has ever seen from him. "Yeah, I got that memo," he says dryly, "about six years ago."

She feels herself flush with guilt. "No, I — Peeta, I want to talk to you. It wasn't ever about not wanting to talk to you. I mean, I — ugh. Just not about what you want to talk about, not that."

Peeta takes a step closer and then steps back, rethinking things. "You want to talk to me?"

She shrugs, turning around and walking back inside. When he follows her, she takes a seat at the counter. He sits beside her; their elbows touch. She remembers eating grilled cheeses with him here when they were younger. They sit in silence, and she wonders what he is thinking.

"It wasn't ever about not wanting to talk to you," she says suddenly. "It was just — God, Peeta. My dad was dead and my mom lost it, and I had to figure out how to use life insurance money to buy groceries. I just — things weren't the same. They couldn't be the same." He stays quiet, but she feels him looking at her. "I used to just wonder…I don't know, whatever. What you would do if I just started talking to you again, if I threw something through your window, if I did that thing with the flashlight again."

"Katniss—" His voice is soft, but she can't look at him, can't listen to what he has to say. Six years of thoughts are exploding from her and she can't stop them.

"But you were just — I couldn't. I didn't know how, and then it was like all of a sudden everyone loved you, and I knew you wouldn't have time for me anyway. And there were all those stupid girls in your room, and just seeing you made me so nervous, especially when you go running, and — last night, I don't know. I didn't mean to see you, I didn't mean to. I know I shouldn't have watched, but I just — you were so—" She jumps up, still not looking at him. Grabs her glass of water but doesn't drink, just holds it tightly.

"I know it was creepy to, uh, you know. Do. What I did. But you seriously just, you were there and you were so — you know." She finally looks at him, accidentally, and his expression is something that she can't understand. His eyes are a deeper blue than usual in the darkening kitchen. She presses her palms tightly against her eyes, thinks her hands might be shaking. "Please just leave."

But he doesn't. Instead he moves so close that she can feel how warm he is, pulls her hands from her eyes. He rolls his eyes, but he is smiling a little; she swallows hard. He squeezes her hands. "Shut up, Katniss."

And then he is pressing against her, his lips soft. Pulls away slightly, waiting, forehead pressed against hers.

She shouldn't. Because really, she barely knows him, hasn't really known him since sixth grade, and isn't this a bad idea? But then his hand slips around, resting low on the small of her back and pulling her harder against him, and he whispers, "You make me nervous too. Always have."

And really, how weird can it be after they've seen each other masturbating?

. . .

Somehow they make their way up to her room; she thinks if she lets herself she would feel embarrassed at how quickly they are moving, but the way his hands trace up her side and brush underneath her breasts erase all thoughts from her mind, everything but Peeta, Peeta, Peeta. He hovers over her on her bed, the warmth of his exhale against the hollow of her throat making her shiver. He smirks, pressing kisses to her neck.

"What?" she asks, her voice embarrassingly breathy.

Peeta grins happily, rolling onto his side. He props his head up with one hand, the other resting hotly against her rib cage. The heat burns through her shirt, in a way that is better than she ever thought possible. "I've just thought about this a lot," he admits, tracing circles on her side. Without even thinking, she squeezes her thighs together. "About talking to you again. Kissing you.  
He looks up at her tightly shut window, smiles again. "About being in here with you. A lot."

Her breath hitches a little. "Who were you — who were you thinking about?" He gives her a quizzical look and she flushes again. "Last night."

He laughs lightly, leaning back over her. "Miss Trinket," he teases, hand sliding up from her side and cupping her breast, face turning serious when she lets out a little moan. "You," he says solemnly. "Always you. Since before I was even old enough to think about things like that, it was you." She rolls her eyes at his words and he grins again. "Since the first day we made mudpies together and I heard you singing."

She scoffs, squirming as he continues to palm her breast through her shirt. "We were like six."

He shrugs. "Five," he corrects offhandedly, attention focused on her chest. He grunts in surprise when she pulls him against her, kisses him more frantically than she has before. Moans his appreciation when she pulls away from him to slip her shirt off.

"I wonder if I can get you to make those sounds you made last night," he whispers against her skin, and she laughs. Laughs turning into sighs the lower he slides down. Sighs turning into moans.

He can.

Shit.

. . .

fin.


	2. Chapter 2

The lunch table is obnoxiously crowded, and Peeta uses the opportunity to press even closer than usual to Katniss, his thigh flush against hers, the warmth burning through her jeans. His arm is wrapped around her, gripping her hip loosely, tracing circles through her t-shirt that will possibly make her lose her mind if they go on any longer.

Despite her previous hatred for PDA, she likes these little subtle things he's tried to slip in since they started whatever this is — the way he grips her hand tightly when they walk through the halls, the bordering on annoying smirks he gives her until she allows him to kiss her lightly outside of her locker, the little touches against the small of her back. She likes it, even though it makes her blush, no matter how many times he's slipped her shirt off by now, when his friends smirk knowingly.

Madge sits on the other side of her, and Katniss is comforted by the fact that she looks just as disconcerted and out of place among Peeta's loud friends. To their credit, they've all been really nice and welcoming, but she fucking _swears_, if Delly asks her braiding tips one more time she is going to flip her shit. Right now Delly is rambling on about dress cuts and styles and colors and a bunch of other shit Katniss doesn't even want to try to understand. She's too distracted by the way Peeta has slipped his fingers under the hem of her shirt, lightly scraping his nails against her hip bone. She shudders against him and looks over at him, torn between wanting to punch him in the throat and to drag him back to her house to make him do that all over. Peeta's eyes meet her and he smiles innocently as his fingers trail further underneath her shirt.

"What about you, Katniss?"

She jolts suddenly, pulling away from Peeta as if electrified. Madge snorts softly beside her.

"Huh?"

Delly grins patiently. "What color is your prom dress?"

Oh. Shit. She shifts anxiously in her chair, wondering if there is a way to nonchalantly scan the exits for escape. _Shit_. "Oh, uh—"

The bell rings and Katniss stands up hastily, shoving her chair back and darting away from the table. "Gotta go," she yells over her shoulder. She doesn't look back, doesn't even wait for Peeta to walk her to class as usual.

Because here's the thing. She doesn't have a dress. Even though the prom is this weekend. Even though it's her senior prom and supposed to be some kind of big fucking deal. Because no one's even asked her.

Not even her fucking unofficial boyfriend.

. . .

She manages to avoid thinking about it during the next two periods, but by the time the bell rings for the last period8 Katniss can't wait any longer. While she should be taking notes during Mr. Abernathy's Social Issues lecture she instead scowls down at the desk, picking at her cuticles.

'_What color is your dress?_,' she mimics in her head viciously, picking at the dry skin around her pinky. _Delly fucking Cuntwright_. She closes her eyes tightly against the wave of guilt. It's not Delly's fault Peeta hasn't asked her to prom.

She doesn't know if she's more upset by the fact that Peeta hasn't asked her to prom yet, or that she actually _wants_ him to. It's not that she needs him to lay her down on a bed of roses or stand outside her window with a boom box playing shitty eighties songs — in fact, she's pretty sure she'd never talk to him again if he did that.

But still. Peeta is a _prom person_, an obnoxiously golden all star who basically already has the fucking Prom King crown_._ A Prom King that she has let cop a feel and walk her to class and sneak in her window multiple times. And he can't even ask her to _prom_? She doesn't even like the idea of prom, not really. It's a waste of money and she can't dance and she'd have to wear makeup which makes her face feel all sticky and fake. But doesn't Peeta want to go to prom?

She searches wildly for hope, for something that will make this all make sense; her thoughts slip to the stolen hours in her room, learning each other. Not just making out, although that's been awesome. But talking and stuff — his favorite color is orange like the sunset and he's really, really bad at math and he runs with his shirt off every day because he caught her staring one time. He likes to decorate cakes and sleep with his windows open and he drinks unsweetened tea even though that's virtually unheard of in their part of the south unless you're over fifty or diabetic. He draws and likes for her to sing to him, which sucks for him because she never does. He has an embarrassingly dirty mouth when they're fooling around, which she kind of loves. And a million tiny other things, and promises of the things she doesn't know yet but someday will.

As warm as these thoughts make her, she still frowns. Always in her house. Always in her room. He doesn't stay for dinner, hasn't talked to her mom or spent time with Prim. Usually sneaks over at night. And sure, he walks her to class and begs her to sit with him at lunch, but he hasn't taken her to his house or asked her out on a date yet. Peeta Mellark is a fucking dater but he certainly hasn't tried to make things official.

She looks back at her pinky and realizes it's bleeding from picking at her skin too much. Shit. She fights back an irrational urge to cry.

She's just been a huge idiot this whole time.

Shit, shit, shit.

. . .

Katniss doesn't wait for him in the parking lot, speed walking out of class and elbowing every asshole who gets in her way until she finally reaches her car. She is parked beside Peeta and she turns her head long enough to see him getting closer out of the corner of her eye, waving in her direction.

Clearly she has two options: she can face him now like a halfway mature person or she can jump in her car and gun it. And if she could just find her keys in her backpack gunning it would be the solution; as it is, she is still fishing frantically in the dumb little zippered compartment that she crams way too much shit in when he makes it to her. She can hear him breathing heavily as if he ran all the way to her. When he presses himself against her back, wrapping his arms around her in a loose hug, he feels stiflingly hot. She visibly stiffens when he kisses her neck softly.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were avoiding me," he jokes quietly, pulling away from her. She can tell by the nerves in his voice that he's a little bit serious. She reluctantly turns around, squints at him in the bright afternoon light; he is lovely and golden and suddenly feels so far away from being hers it makes her stomach queasy.

Peeta brushes the hair that has come loose from her braid off her forehead; if he minds the nervous sweat that is beaded on her hairline he doesn't mention it. He takes in her frown, swallows hard. "This is the part where you tell me I'm paranoid."

For a minute he looks so heartfelt, so genuinely sweet and anxious that she just wants to take him to her house and watch overdramatic TNT shows on Netflix, curl up next to him on the couch and makr jokes at the expense of David Boreanaz. Finally invite him to stay for dinner, blush uncomfortably as Prim asks awkward questions and her mom hints around the sex talk. Instead she looks up at him, shrugs her shoulders with a scowl.

"I didn't know I had to wait for you," she says, rolling her eyes.

Peeta looks taken aback. "Oh, uh," he pulls away from her and takes a step back, shoving his hands deep in his pockets, "I mean, you don't have to, I just thought—"

"Thought what?" she scoffs. She tries to ignore the pit of dread that is quickly growing bigger with every passing second. "That I was just gonna spend all my time waiting around on you?"

He frowns, confused. "What are you even talking about? We've been walking to class together for like two weeks, I just assumed—"

"Well assuming things has a good way of making you look like an idiot," she says bitterly. She knows from experience.

For the first time, he looks pissed. Really pissed. "You're right, Katniss. One of us definitely looks like an idiot right now." She flushes; her heart is beating so rapidly from confrontation that she thinks she might be sick.

They stand there for a minute, deadlocked. Peeta looks sick and angry and upset. "I guess just…call me when you're ready to talk about this," he says flatly. His voice is quiet and final.

And then somehow he is the one driving quickly away and she is left standing there, still searching for her keys and trying not to cry.

. . .

Her mom works late that night, so she orders pizza for her and Prim. Together they gorge on the large meat lover's and watch bad nineties teen movies that Prim is obsessed with. She keeps her phone face down on the coffee table, resolutely ignoring the lack of witty texts with annoying winky faces that Peeta usually sends her.

Somewhere in between Freddy Prinze Jr.'s weirdly intense hacky sack performance art and an impromptu prom queen rap, her phone buzzes. Her stomach drops nervously, but she makes herself wait until Paul Walker makes an ass out of himself before she looks at it.

_REDBOX: Rent that movie you've been meaning to see!_

And oh god, it's humiliating how disappointed she is. She saves the promo code, though. She'll probably need that when she's home alone Saturday night, not at prom with Peeta.

She wonders if she's made a giant mistake.

Shit.

. . .

She sits down in the shower that night, too distracted to even use the detachable shower head, unable to get her thoughts to quiet down.

Peeta said she was being an idiot. Sort of. In a roundabout way after she implied that he was an idiot first. _But still_. Ugh. The fact that he was just as passive aggressive as she was really pisses her off. She reaches out for her phone on the counter, dripping water carelessly on the keypad — it's only 8:30, which is ridiculous because it feels like fucking next week. He probably got home from the bakery a little while ago; if she had to make a guess she would say he's in his room, working on stupid Calculus equations and cutting his eyes in the direction of her room every few seconds, stewing over their argument.

Before she can think too much she lets her fingers tap out the words — _We need to talk._ She sits under the spray a while longer, closing her eyes as the water washes over her face, waiting for her phone to buzz. It doesn't.

. . .

When she gets back in her room, the window is open; moonlight streams in with the humid spring air, and her room smells like freshly cut grass from the neighbor's yard. She crosses over and looks out, clutching her towel to her chest. His window is open, but no light streams out. "Is he seriously sleeping right now?"

And even though she is alone and it was rhetorical, there is an answer. "Nope."

Katniss turns around so quickly that her towel fans out and when her eyes finally land on him, leaning against her closet door, he is flushed, eyes averted. "Uh, do you think you could put on some clothes?"

"Fucking shit, Peeta," she hisses. Her heart is pounding in her chest, echoing loudly in her ears. "You scared the shit out of me." She stalks back over to her bedroom door and shuts it furiously. Her eyes find him again and he is actually looking at her this time. "What are you even doing here?"

Peeta licks his lips nervously, still eyeing her towel. She tries to stay focused. "You said we needed to talk."

"Yeah, like on the phone," she says, rolling her eyes. "Or in a place we agreed on, like normal people. I didn't expect this Buffy and Angel shit."

And for an instant she thinks Peeta might forget that they're arguing because he grins the way he does when she has clearly spent too much time on Netflix instead of doing her homework. His smiles drops just as suddenly, though, and he sighs. "Can you just put some clothes on, Katniss? I can't—" He shuffles his feet around and shoves his hands in his pockets. "It's hard to concentrate when you're like that."

She kind of wants to say something sassy but now that her heartbeat has slowed and the initial surprise has worn off, she is just really, _really_ glad to see him. Because for a few hours there she was pretty certain he was never going to sneak in her window again. Which would suck. A lot.

"Turn around, then," she says quietly. When her towel hits the floor she hears him bang his head against the wall and mutter to himself; she tries not to smile as she slips into her underwear and sleeping shorts. She throws a t-shirt on and sits cross legged in front of her bed, clutching a pillow to her stomach.

"Okay, you're good."

He bangs his head once more, and then turns to face her. They stare at each other for a long minute before he finally crosses the room and sits on the floor in front of her. He rests his elbows on his knees and leans forward, looking at her with a frown.

She irrationally wants him to just start talking, to already know what's wrong and have just the right words to fix it. Instead he stares at her steadily, waiting. _Be logical, Katniss._

"I'm just really pissed at you," she blurts. Okay, so. Not the approach she was intending, but it gets the point across. His brow knits in irritation.

"Obviously," Peeta retorts. "What — what did I even do? Everything seemed fine at lunch. Unless, I mean, I know you're not crazy about PDA but my friends didn't even notice—"

She shakes her head, blushing. "It wasn't that."

He scowls; she doesn't remember ever seeing him so frustrated. "Well then I just have no idea." He rubs his eyes tiredly. "It all seemed good until it wasn't. I thought you liked sitting with me. Us. My friends were even talking to you today—"

"About _prom_," she interrupts. Gives him the most pointed look she can muster. He stares at her, dumbfounded, and she tries again. "Delly was talking to me about _prom_." She gestures wildly at nothing, and he shakes his head. And she just can't take it anymore.

She explodes. "Are you fucking kidding me? You don't — how you are so good with people but you don't get this, Peeta? Delly — Delly wanted to talk about prom. But I can't talk about prom. I can't tell her what I'm wearing or how I'm doing my hair or where we're going to eat because we're not _going_."

He blinks rapidly, like she smashed a vase over his head, and he swallows hard. "Katniss—"

She is horrified by the tears in her eyes. "I thought you liked me," she says, quieter now but just as angry. "God, I'm so stupid, but I really thought that we weren't just fooling around or whatever, but obviously—"

"Wait." He lurches forward on his knees and grips her shoulders tightly. The look on his face is so intense that she actually shuts up. "You're mad because I didn't ask you to prom?"

She shrugs out of his grasp. "It's not just that. It's everything. It's the fact that you only sneak over at night and never ask me to come over and haven't talked to my mom or Prim or even tried to take me on a real date or—"

"Oh my god, Katniss." He laughs as if everything is suddenly better, clearly underestimating how upset she is. "This is crazy!"

She stands up suddenly, crosses to the other side of the room to get as far away from his as possible. "Are you fucking kidding me? You're _laughing_ at me? Do you really think that's a good decision right now?"

He turns around, moving to sit on the bed. "I'm not laughing at you," he says gently. "I just—" He shakes his head, "I can't believe I've been trying so hard not to freak you out over how much I like you that you're freaking out that I don't like you enough."

She glares. "What are you talking about, Peeta?"

"Katniss, I've been crazy about you since the moment I met you. Since before I met you, actually, since the moment you got out of your dad's truck your first day here." She would scoff, but the look on his face is so earnest it seems impossible. "Your hair was in two braids instead of one and—"

She rolls her eyes finally. "Cut the shit, Peeta."

"I'm serious," he insists. "I told my dad when we were five that I was going to marry you. And I just, I spent like thirteen years trying to figure out how to make you feel the same way. So a couple of weeks ago when everything, you know, _happened_, I just went for it. And you barely even wanted to talk to me at all when that happened, much less hear how in love with you I am. So I just — I don't know, I left it up to you. You never mentioned telling your family that we were together or anything, so I figured you weren't ready. So I didn't mention it either."

Katniss is torn between feeling irrationally angry at his logical explanation, freaking out at _that word_, and just kissing him until he shuts up.

Instead she walks back across the room, flopping beside him on the bed. Not so close that she's touching him, but close enough to smell his shampoo. "What about prom?"

Peeta laughs disbelievingly; he shifts on the bed and turns towards her. Grabs her hand and squeezes it tightly. "I just thought you weren't the kind of girl who wanted to go to prom."

She frowns. "I'm not, really."

"But you're pissed that I didn't ask?" She shrugs unapologetically, and he smiles. "I wasn't trying to be an asshole, I just…I don't know, I thought we'd rent a Redbox and just hang out."

Luckily, she has a code for that. "Oh."

"So…wanna go to prom?"

Katniss tries to scowl. "Shut up." She doesn't want to admit how relieved and freaked out and happy and confused she is, so she settles for her signature frown.

"No, seriously." Peeta scoots closer on the bed, his leg flush against hers. "You can cut up a bunch of pink dresses and mash them into one and I'll pick you up on my dad's lawn mower." He looks so hopeful that she can't help but laugh. But only a little. He leans further, his face inches from hers. "You can even give me your underwear as a souvenir."

"You're mixing your references," she mutters, fighting a smile. His lips ghost over hers.

"Oops."

Then he is kissing her softly, pulling her closer. And somehow, even though they've been doing this for weeks, it seems different; her hands hang awkwardly at her sides, unsure what to do. She pulls away, squeezes her eyes closed nervously.

"Do you want to come over for dinner tomorrow?" When her eyes squint open, his smile is brilliant.

"I guess this kind of makes you my girlfriend," he says teasingly. His hands slip under the hem of her t-shirt, sliding up her back.

"There goes the fun part," she jokes back, shivering at his touch. She's fairly certain she's beaming, which would be embarrassing if she wasn't so fucking _happy_.

They don't talk much after that.

. . .

Hours later, he crawls back out of her window, lips swollen and hair sticking in all directions. If she were in a movie, this is the part where she would squeal loudly and spin around. Instead, she tugs her shirt back on and watches him sneak back into his room. He blows her a kiss from his window and she rolls her eyes and waves back, ignoring the way her heart beats faster.

Even though it's late and she has class soon, when she gets back in bed she can't do anything but think of Peeta. Her boyfriend. Her fucking _boyfriend._ That she is going to prom with. Funny how things change in a day.

She thinks about hearing Peeta say the word 'love.' Maybe she'll just deal with that after graduation.

Shit.

. . .

. . .

_You can find two additional Neighborly drabbles on my tumblr, under the "Drabbles" tag. There is always a chance someone can convince me to continue, but until then I'd consider this complete. Thanks for reading! Come find me on tumblr: swishywillow._


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